


The Peekablue Peril

by SomePaperMoons



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Catra and Adora Fight the Nazis!, F/F, Glimmer is Welsh, Spies & Secret Agents, don't ask why
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:54:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27851218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomePaperMoons/pseuds/SomePaperMoons
Summary: August 1939: Europe is on the brink of war, and in Lisbon, a young socialite with a drink problem fears for his life.Adora Grayson is a less-than-official agent of the British Government, has been tasked with keeping him alive: a task made much harder now he's vanished.Catra D’riluth is a French-Algerian journalist with far too many skeletons in the closest for someone so young, who's got herself far in over her head with the wrong people. People with Monocoles and Jackboots. That sort of thing. And now the man whose house she broke into has disappeared without a trace.At the heart of both their quests is the mysterious Peter K. Blue, a man many have seen but very few really know. Whatever has happened to him is likely to change the war that is about to come, and it's up to Adora and Catra to figure it out, whether they like it or not.CW//: This piece contains contemporary attitudes and language from the 1930s, include severe language
Relationships: Adora & Bow & Glimmer (She-Ra), Adora & Catra (She-Ra), Adora/Catra (She-Ra), Bow & Glimmer (She-Ra)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some historical notes:
> 
> Salazar: Dictator of Portugal from 1933 - very right-wing - a supporter of the Fascists in the Spanish Civil War
> 
> SIS - another name for MI6
> 
> Deuxieme Bureau - French Secret Service
> 
> Abwehr - the German Secret Service
> 
> CW// This passage contains the use of contemporary language for the 1930s in reference to race.

**Lisbon, Portugal, August 1939**

Peekablue’s office was stupidly overstuffed. She could even in the pitch black of night. Catra hated it. It was full of books no one read, the art she could see in the dim streetlight was _horrible_ , and worst of all, it stank of cologne – even in the darkness, she could find his desk from the smell of the putrid stuff. She could smell it from outside the window as she’d forced it open from the outside and had to stop herself from falling backwards in shock. Thankfully, Catra had hauled herself into the office to recover, before beginning her search. Outside she could hear the sounds of yelling and shouting from the bars on the streets below, the shunting and rattling as a tram thundered past shaking the room slightly.

She didn’t have much time – even though everyone was meant to be out at some ambassador’s ball, and Scorpia was outside on her Motorcycle watching the door, things could easily go wrong, especially if she forgot the signal. She ran her hands along the closest bookshelf as she crept across the room, her eye on the two doors, running the floor plan over in her head, marking the one to the left of the window she came in through as leading to the main corridor, and the one on the far wall by the windows overlooking the main street as leading to his Bedroom, and next to-

She moved slowly across to the desk, taking care to tread squarely on the centre of each floorboard as she did, scouring what she could see of the desk in the dim light. There was not much on top – a lamp, a few pens, a Cigar case, and a few discarded documents that Catra couldn’t care less about – she was after something specific. The top drawer didn’t even need to be forced open – the stupid Englishman had left the key in it. Catra smirked as she slid it open, then she began lifting papers one by one, snorting at some indelicate photos before-

The blinked for a second, staring at the opened envelope with the name of that _putain_ Weaver on it. She took the letter out, reading it quickly, stilling at the Swastika emblazoned on the top of the page, grimacing at the _Heil Hitler!_ signoff at the end of the litter, barely aware of the name at the bottom. She blinked for a second, her heart racing as she read it a second time, then she leant back against the wall behind her, her heart racing. She took a deep breath, thinking about what the hell she was going to do now. _This isn’t why I’m here. This is absolutely not why I am here. If I do anything put but this bag and get the hell out of here, I’m a fucking moron asking to get my head blow off by some damned Nazi._ She put the letter in her pocket, slowly, feeling her heart race as she did so. She was about to sit back up on her heels when she heard a loud revving outside the window. She froze, straining to hear above the hubbub from below. Nothing, then-

Another revv, then she heard a door slamming gracelessly in the building.

 _Merde_. Suddenly the sounds of steps in the stairwell came echoing up, causing Catra to stand up with a shock, shoving the draw closed as quickly as she could before turning to the window. She made a start for the open window, but the footsteps were too close now, thumping down the corridor outside. She looked desperately around the room, then spotted a gap between the doorway and a bookshelf. Catra slunk into it just as the door flung open, hissing as it smacked open close to her face. Her hand went to the Luger in her leather jacket, quietly pulling the bolt back as someone staggered into the office.

“Is everything alright Senhor?” A voice came from the corridor. The stranger had not turned the lights on, but in the illumination from the corridor, she could see him waving her off with a hand.

“It’s alright Ms Fonseca,” he said drunkenly, holding himself up on the desk.

“Are you sure, Senhor?”

“I’ll be alright,” he said, staggering around the desk, his hand waving again at the window. “Go look after your son.”

There was a hesitating shuffle in the corridor. “Goodnight, Senhor Blue,” then the door next Catra swung shut delicately. The man behind the desk slumped into his chair, his glassy eyes looking straight at the wall above Catra. “Silly Bitch,” he said, staring lazily at the space above her as he lit a cigar, puffing it slowly as he hummed in his chair. “Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the mid-day sun,” he sang quietly, chuckling to himself.

 _What the fuck am I going to do?_ Suddenly he staggered up, his eyes on the drawer. “Mrs Fonseca!” he yelled, tripping slightly as he staggered over to the door, flinging it open. “Mrs Fonseca! Have you been in my office!” he bellowed as he stomped past her. _Oh, fuck fuck fuck._ Catra looked at the open window, then took a deep breath, before pushing herself off the wall and running for it, ignoring the start from behind her as she leapt through the gap, praying that she’d remembered the location of the stupidly large bush by the street outside. Thankfully, the bruising and scraping as she crashed into the greenery confirmed that she would not be about to die in some stupid garden in Lisbon. Groaning, she went to pull herself up when she found herself being lifted from the Bush.

“Catra!” an American accented voice called almost pleadingly. “You all right?”

“I’m fine,” she hissed back, dropping from Scorpia’s arms and dusted herself down. “You were meant to wait with the bike!”

“I did!” she replied, pointing to the Triumph Motorbike that stood behind the tall woman.

“Well then?” Scorpia was already starting the bike when she saw the light being turned on in the Office above them. “Let’s go you damn Yankee!” she yelled, jumping on the back as the driver kicked away the stand and drove away, snaking between the Cafe chairs in the street as they thundered downhill, the wind whipping past them as they raced through the night.

“Did you get it?”

“Quoi?” Catra yelled, still clinging onto Scorpia, who ignored the yell from a traffic policeman as they cut across the main thoroughfare.

“Did you get the documents?” she yelled again. Catra thought about the letter in her jacket, the one that was burning a hole in her jacket as Scorpia guided the bike between a truck and a tram with ease. She thought about the power it had, and how much danger that stupid Englishman had been in having it, and how much she was now in if anyone found out what it said.

“Sort of,” she decided, a devious smile drawing across her face.

***

Lisbon was hot. It was obviously going to be warmer than London, but it was uncomfortably warm here, but Adora suspected that much of that had been her fault. Adam had told her that Portugal could get as warm as the Med, and as much of an idiot as he could be, he did have far more experience with these sorts of climates than Adora did. The jacket had seemed like a good idea when she had been running for the train to Southampton and (and an even better one climbing into the godforsaken flying boat), but now as she and the rest of the disembarking passengers bobbed about in a motor launch in the Tagus, she was beginning to regret the choice, not only because she was sweating profusely, but because carrying around a tweed blazer did tend to mark you out as an Englishwoman. Not that that itself was too much of a problem- it was just in her line of work, being particularly noticeable was not really a good starting place.

What was it exactly that Adora did? Well, that was a good question really. Officially, she was a Senior Stenographer at the War Officer, whatever that meant. Adora was useless with typewriters, which was just as well because she barely got to use them in the first place. The job title was just as euphemistic as her boss, Ms Barrett-Jones’s was. Who exactly thought that Admiral’s needed ‘Chief Secretaries’? What were they meant to do? Whatever people assumed they did, it seemed to be broad enough that whatever Angella demanded she got.

Then again, she did wear her Husband’s VC, so that tended to get the job done. More importantly, all she ever seemed to do was glorified paperwork, right?

At least that’s what Angella had told her when she’d first been to see her in ’37. Adora thought it would be another in-and-out job, a few months’ pay from a family friend of her parents before she fucked up and got tossed out to try again as a stupid secretary or assistant to some loudmouthed prick with a stick up his ass.

Adora had arrived at a small, backroom set of offices off Oxford Street, expecting to meet a stuff-nosed grinning idiot who’d pay her a pittance before making some miserable pass at her. Instead, she’d been ushered into a large room, to be met by Angella (only known to her as Mrs Barrett-Jones, a distant family friend -something to do with her long-dead father) and a thin, dark-skinned, sallow man sat behind a table. She’d sat down in a large armchair, slightly overawed by how such a large, book-filled room had fit into such a small building. Mrs Barrett Jones had stepped away to stand by a window, smoking a cigarette from a long silver holder.

She’d already begun to babble her miserable experience off before the black man (who had introduced himself as Mr Joseph-Mitchell) cut her off.

“Is it true,” he said, “that you once spent a whole week pretending to be your brother?” Adora had nearly fallen out of her chair.

“I-“she gasped. “It was for a bet! One of my friends said that we looked alike, and they all bet £10 each that I could pass for him and-“

“No one caught you?” Mr Joseph-Mitchell continued, unfazed.

“…no, actually,” Adora said, still frightened.

“In fact, Ms Grayson, you managed to not only impersonate your brother at several parties in London but then you gained access to Her Majesty’s naval base in Portsmouth and proceeded to board HMS Essex and perform the duties of your Brother for two whole days before disembarking.”

“…how do you know that?” She’d asked, in shock.

“It’s our job to know things,” he had replied.

“…good for you?” Adora had replied, cringing at her bad joke. Mitchell merely stared at her before opening the file in front of him.

“It says here that you were not even suspected by his closest brother officers, who only became aware of the ‘prank’ when Lieutenant Grayson informed them of the swap.”

“I didn’t think I was that good-“she’d muttered. “But I mean, it isn’t the first time I’ve pulled something like that off-“

“We are aware of the robbery at Elberon House,” he had said dryly.

“Robbery?”

“The theft of the Whispering Ruby?” he said as if Adora wasn’t aware of what he was talking about.”

“I didn’t steal it!” she shot at him. “Besides, it turned up on Lord Dashwood’s pillow the next day.”

“Without any sign of break-in or exit,” he said. “None of the staff noticed an extra pair of hands at all.”

“How did you know that?”

Mr Joesph-Mitchell gave what Adora assumed had been a smile. “It’s our job to be aware of these things.”

“What kind of job is this?” Adora spluttered, then glared at Mrs Barrett Jones, who was still standing by the window smoking her cigarette. “Did my mother put you up to this?”

“If your mother knew you were here, she’d never talk to me again,” Angella replied measuredly, before turning to cross the long, dark study to where Adora sat. “As for the work here? Well,” she paused, then smiled. “Read much John Buchan?”

Adora blinked. “Wait, seriously?” Angella nodded. “Spying?” Angella had nodded again. Adora gaped at her, the tall woman still staring at her as if nothing had happened. “I can’t be a spy!”

“Why not?” Angella had asked candidly.

“I can’t lie, for a start!”

“You clearly can.”

“That’s different!” she protested. “I was playing a role! It was like acting! It was for fun!” Angella seemed unconvinced.

“You can gather information very quickly, Ms Grayson. How people move; how they act; what their routines are. You can see patterns immediately and follow them through. And I know you have-“ she sighed, “other issues, but so do most of our best agents. But that doesn’t stop anyone doing their bit for King and Country, does it?”

“No,” she said. “But what if I don’t want to do my bit for King and Country, Mrs Barrett Jones?”

Angella raised an eyebrow at that. “What about doing your bit to stop Herr Hitler?” Adora had perked up a little at that. “What do you say, Ms Grayson. Finish the work you started at Cable Street?”

“How do you know about that?” Adora asked, already knowing the answer.

“It’s our job to know things. It could be yours too if you want it.”

“Is this really work for – y’know, me?” Adora had asked. “A woman?” Mr Joseph Mitchell snorted at that, as had Mrs Barrett-Jones.

“We’ve learnt that there are certain people who go ignored because they’re considered….” She had seemed lost for words.

“Stupid?” Adora suggested mirthlessly, gaining nods from both of them.

“Something like that. People don’t suspect young women or old women.”

“Or Negroes,” Mr Joseph Mitchell added, with a small smirk. “The ones most don’t notice, or don’t care about.”

“Malcolm’s right,” Mrs Barrett-Jones said. “We can get away with a lot more if we’re careful.”

“I can do careful,” Adora had added. “I can definitely do careful.”

“Well then,” the tall woman said. “Ready to do your bit?” She put her hand out. Adora extended hers, then paused.

“What happens if I say no?”

“You leave her and never hear from us again.”

Adora thought for a second. “Will my mother find out?”

“As far as your mother’s aware, I’ve got you a job working as an assistant to the Deputy chief of an Import-Exports Company. It pays well and is respectable, but you do travel a bit.” Adora had smiled at that, taking in the subtext of _she’ll leave you alone_.

“Ok.” She took the tall woman’s hand. “I’ll do it, Mrs Barrett-Jones.”

“Please Adora,” she said, smiling. “Call me Angella.”

That had been two years ago. It had been good work – mainly dull work – a lot of paperwork, following patterns of money across different companies, tracing the agents of the German Abwehr across different parts of Europe. She’d had a fun time in Denmark in 1938 pretending to be a stenographer at the British Embassy while she trailed a suspected double agent, but that had come to an end when the crisis over Czechoslovakia had nearly boiled over into war, and while Mr Chamberlain had flown to Munich, Mrs Grayson had been flown back to London. Since then she’d been bolted to the desk (along with the rest of the department) while Angella had wrangled with her highers up over everything from whether she could send them into the field to whether they were entitled to sick pay.

That drought had ended yesterday, when she’d been called into Angella’s office to see her and Malcolm poring over a large file, the dark-skinned man babbling down a phone in what sounded like Portuguese. Angella had sighed, then looked at her with tired, baggy eyes.

“Pack a bag.”

“We’re back on operations?” Angella nodded. “Where am I going? Poland?” she shook her head.

“I need you to go to Lisbon,” she said firmly. Adora blinked. “You need to keep an eye on Peekablue for us.”

“Who’s Peekablue?” she’d asked, a file being dumped in her hands in response. “Okay, when am I going?”

“Tomorrow. There’s a- “Malcolm handed her a scrap of paper. “9 am Flying Boat from Southampton. Tickets for the train and the plane should be in there with the core brief.”

“I-“Adora tried to take it all in suddenly.

“Only on a technicality.” Adora nodded, trying to hide her glee.

“Do I need any more briefing or-“

“We haven’t the time,” Angella said. “The Ministry’s in a flap over Poland, and this has just made everything more complicated.”

“What is ‘this’?” Adora had asked, gaining a look of annoyance from her boss.

“Just go home, pack a suitcase and read the file!” Angella said, snatching another note from Malcolm. “And Adora?”

“Yes?” she said, turning as she got to the door.

“Pack the Commander’s dress.” Adora had to stop herself from giving her boss a strange look but didn’t question it. She’d been up till 3 am reading the file, making her notes (both physical and mental) as quickly as she could. She’d only caught snatches of sleep between then and now (the flight, unsurprisingly, had not agreed with her), so unsurprisingly, the short boat ride in the blistering sunlight from the plane to the shore had been atrocious, and she hadn’t felt much better when they’d landed, scowling at the launch’s skipper as she stepped onto the wooden jetty and followed the other passengers to customs, where several square-built Portuguese policemen would greet them.

“Purpose of your visit?”

“Business. I work for Speller and Moon Exports Limited.” The customs officer raised an eyebrow at her.

“Their Address?”

“24b Rua de Arroios,” she said breezily as if she hadn’t spent all night committing it to memory.

“How long will you be in Portugal, senhorita Grayson?” Adora bristled at the slightly leery question.

“As long as I’m needed.” He nodded, his eye on the ring on her finger. He huffed and stamped her papers, and Adora made sure she was facing away from him when she finally rolled her eyes, before filing through the concourse to the arrivals side. She glanced around for her contact – one of the duty officers on the Lisbon Station, not seeing him.

She put her suitcase down and went to fumble in her jacket (which was now crumpled in her arm) for a cigarette, contemplating how the hell she was going to get into town. It wasn’t that her Portuguese was bad but getting in a taxi as a young Englishwoman wasn’t something she really wanted to do if she didn’t want to be marked by thieves, or worse. She had just found her lighter when a dark-skinned man about her age strode up to her with a big grin on her eyes. She cocked her head at him. “Mr Archer?” she queried.

“That’s me!” he said with a grin, taking her hand and shaking it profusely. “Bernard Oliver Wilson Archer at your service, though my friends call me Bow.” Bernard – or Bow -, no Bow sounded better – was in a light tan suit with a red and white striped shirt underneath, and wide hat that covered a cropped head of hair. His smile went from ear to ear and was incredibly infectious. “I’ve got a car outside,” he continued, picking up Adora’s suitcase and gestured for her to follow him. “How was your flight, Ms Grayson?” His accent was north American, but with a deeper twang than that of her mother’s Long Island accent.

“It was bumpy, and early, but I’m alive,” she quipped, earning a chuckle from him. “And please, call me Adora.”

“What a lovely name!” He said with an earnestness that immediately put him in a cut above all the leering men who had tried to court her in the past, primarily because it did not seem particularly predatory.

“My mother had an obsession with obscure Greek Goddesses,” she said dryly. “My brother got the sensible end of the naming stick, but my mother got her way with me.”

“I get that,” Bow said as he led her back out into the blistering sunshine, where a few cars and a sleek American-imported bus battled with pedestrians for room. “I’ve got three first names simply because Mr Lance and Mr George couldn’t agree on names.” Adora raised an eyebrow. “I grew up in an orphanage,” he said coolly as if it was a simple explanation.

“Sounds rough,” Adora replied, not sure what else to say.

“It was alright!” he replied breezily. “Not exactly Oliver Twist, eh?” he said with another smile. “Here we are! He said, gesturing to a slightly battered green open-topped touring car by the side of the main road.

“You can get this on department funds?” She said, running a hand along with the bonnet. Bow shrugged, handing the urchin watching the car a few coins and waving him off.

“Not really, but Angella didn’t want me and Glimmer relying on the Embassy for transport.”

“Glimmer?” she asked, climbing into the passenger seat as bow stowed her bag.

“Oh! That’s what we all call Gwyneth,” he said, “She’s Angella’s daughter. Nothing like a family business, is there?” he chuckled as he started the car, not seeing Adora’s grimace as she thought about her particular family business. “I couldn’t help notice the accent,” he said with a smile as he picked up speed on the main road.

“Oh!” she said, realising that they hadn’t had that stock conversation yet. “My mother’s American and she insisted we only have American governesses until we were much older. My brother lost a lot of his accent, but I was just unlucky.”

Bow nodded. “Your father mustn’t have been pleased.”

“He didn’t have much choice,” she replied a little morosely, but he didn’t seem to notice, merely humming in response. “What about you? You don’t sound very British, or West Indian.”

“Nova Scotian,” he said, catching a curious look from Adora. “There’s been a West Indian community there since 1783,” he added proudly. The suburbs of Lisbon were zipping past them now, and traffic was beginning to get a little heavier, bow weaving the car past donkey and carts full of goods, stopping briefly to yell in Portuguese at a farmer whose cart had cut in front of him. “You read much of the file? Me and Glimmer were up all of Monday night writing that thing before we wired it.”

Adora nodded, then asked the first question that popped into his head “Why’s he called Peekablue?” Bow smirked.

“It’s one of the society puns.” Adora raised an eyebrow. “Peter K. Blue likes a party, but between those parties, he tends to keep himself to himself. Barely anyone sees him. But when people do see him, well-“ bow laughed to himself as he turned into some side streets to avoid a jam – “they tell the stories for months.”

“And why is this hellraiser so important to the Service?” Adora asked. “I mean I get he’s rich, but there’s a lot of young, rich Englishmen in the world. Plenty in Lisbon.”

“Peekablue is the heir to a rather large Anglo-Portuguese Mining company, with interests in Brazil, Venezuela and Argentina. His father is old and will probably be dead before the end of the year.”

“So?” Adora said.

“The elder Mr Blue has a very strict belief that business is above politics. Peter, however, does not.”

“Oh, let me guess,” Adora snarked, “best friends with Mosley and the Mitford sisters? Dinner parties in Nuremberg with the Goebbels family?”

Bow snorted. “Rather the opposite. SIS think the reason he runs the company’s Lisbon office is it makes it easier for him to run guns to the Republicans in Spain.” Adora whistled in response. “Glimmer swears she’s seen him tap dance on a portrait of Salazar.”

“Jesus,” she said, with a new respect for the man. “He’s not a red, is he?”

“Not that I’m aware of. He despises Hitler, and frankly, that’s good enough for me. Good enough for the Service as well. If we can keep him onside, when his father pops it he’ll have control of the mining stakes in South America, and he’ll do what we need to make sure none of it flows into German hands.”

“Another victory for the cause of Democracy,” Adora smirked as they pulled into a cobbled side street off the main avenue. “It certainly explains why everyone is in a flap about this in London, it’d be a real shitshow if something happened to him. What happens if he pops it before his old man?”

“It goes to the Elder Mr Blue’s sister,” he said, “She’s a real piece of work she is.”

“What are we talking?”

“Personal friend of the Mitford sisters.” Adora grimaced in disgust. “Yep. Centre of British society in Lisbon as well. Can’t go to any party without having to deal with Mrs Weaver.” Adora paused on the familiar name but shrugged it off.

“The Germans must love her,” she muttered.

“Well, we’ve had no trouble with the Abwehr here,” Bow said as they pulled into a parking spot outside a pleasant-looking café. “In fact, we have more problems dealing with the Deuxième Bureau than the Germans, though that’s just because Glimmer likes pissing the French off.” Adora let out a little giggle as he turned the car off.

“Speaking of our brave Gallic allies,” Bow said as he climbed out the car. “Ms. Adora Grayson, may I introduce Mademoiselle Perfuma!” Adora saw that a tall, tanned woman with waist-length hair was walking (gliding gracefully might be another way to put it) out of the café, which upon closer inspection she could see was filled floor to ceiling with flowers, climbing plants and other horticulture, which certainly matched the smiling woman who offered Adora her hand.

“Ms Grayson,” she said with a smile and high French accent. “How delightful to meet you!”

Adora shook it, not quite sure what else to do. “Me too, Mademoiselle,”

“Please,” she grinned, “call me Perfuma!” Adora nodded a reply, still shaking her hand.

“Adora’s come from the London office to join us!” Bow sounded like a father introducing his child at a party. Then again, Adora felt a little like a child being introduced to family friends her.

“Ah! Another one! What is it without dear Spinny and trapping all young folk in her dreary office!” Adora laughed nervously.

“It’s not too bad,” she ventured, earning a smile from the Frenchwoman.

“Would you two like something to eat? Scorpia has baked some lovely tarts.”

Adora (who hadn’t eaten since Southampton station) opened her mouth but was cut off by Bow. “Thanks, but we should really get up there. See you later?” Perfuma nodded, waving them off to the side door on the left of the café.

“Off to your customs forms and import tariffs!” she said with a grin. “A Bièntot!” Bow grinned as he ushered Adora into a poorly lit stairwell, shutting the door behind her.

“She seems…nice,” Adora said, already missing the tarts she had been offered. “Does she know about-“

“No,” Bow said, climbing the steep stairs in front of her. “We hang out in there a lot, but as far as she knows we’re just a bunch of underpaid, overworked clerks.” He paused outside a door on the first landing. “Then again, I suppose we are underpaid and overworked, so she’s not far off.” He shrugged, then opened the door. “Welcome to the Lisbon station!” Bow sounded like he was inviting Adora to somewhere nice, instead of ushering her into another dingy corridor with peeling yellow wallpaper and suspicious floorboards. He put her case down and grabbing her led her into another room. “Glimmer! She’s here!”

The main office space was not large – four desks (only two in use right now) in a room that barely fit them, with two large, barred windows with shutters. Each desk had an old, rickety typewriter that looked about as safe to use as the chairs looked safe to sit in. There were a few cupboards on the far wall, and in the open one, she could see a pile of cluttered files threatening to fall out on the floor. Above one of the desks was a large map of Lisbon with various locations (she could pick out the British, French and German embassies) circled with some notes, next to another map of the Iberian Peninsula with the current front between Franco and the Republicans labelling with pins and string. At the desk below it sat a small woman in a long lavender summer dress, glaring at a typewriter as she wrestled with the keys. She groaned as another one snapped out of place, her mop of purple (yes, purple) hair shaking as she smacked the machine again.

“Glimmer?” the dark-skinned man asked again. She flicked her eyes up in frustration, then her demeanour changed quickly as she took in the new presence in the room.

“Oh!” she said, bolting upright and coming round the desk. “You’re here!” she said with a smile. “Gwyneth Bennett-Jones,” she said with a smile, “though my friends call me-“

“Glimmer!” Adora said, then slapping a hand over her mouth. “Sorry!”

“It’s ok!” Glimmer said with a giggle. “I prefer it to Gwyneth,” she said the name with serious malice. “I’ll never forgive my mother for that.”

“She’s not too bad,” Adora ventured.

“Oh! I forgot you worked with her in London!” Bow said, squealing with excitement. “What’s she like as a boss?”

“Well,” Adora said, thinking about what was polite to say. “She’s nicer than Mr Joseph-Mitchell.”

Bow laughed. “Well, That’s Uncle Malcolm for you.” Adora raised an eyebrow at that. “The Odds and Sods Entente is a family business.”

“Sounds like the Navy,” she snorted, earning a curious look from the two of them, and she cringed at the reply. “…is Mrs Spinner in right now?”

“She’s at the Embassy,” Glimmer replied, taking a cigarette from her from a case in her desk, then offering the case to Adora, who took one “It’s all to do with this flap over Peekablue.”

Adora lit her cigarette, then offered her “What exactly has happened?”

“Well-“Glimmer was interrupted by the sound of the Telephone ringing in the corridor. Bow stepped out to get it. “You know why Peekablue is so important.”

She nodded. “Heir the fortune of a large mining fortune, one the Germans would like their mitts on. One that if they bump him off for, will land in the hands of someone who would very much like the Germans to have their hands on it.”

“We got a call on Friday night from him. He was drunk, but he insisted that someone had broken into his office and gone through his private papers. I went round the next day, and someone had forced the window open from the outside. First floor as well – one hell of a climb.”

“The Abwehr were after something?” Glimmer shrugged.

“God knows,” she said. “It could be the Soviets as well. Even the Frogs.” The welsh woman took another drag from the cigarette. “Either way, we agreed someone needed to be put in his office to look after him.”

“Me?” Glimmer nodded. “Well, all of us actually, but mainly you. We’ll go in and pretend to be part of his staff, then figure out what exactly is happening here.”

“Why us?” Adora asked.

“SIS doesn’t care enough, and the Embassy thinks he’s a damned nuisance, so he ends up on the Odd’s and Sods list.” Glimmer sounded a bit disgusted in their status, but not enough that she was not going to pretend she wasn’t proud. “We’ll get it done.”

“So what’s next?” Adora asked, laying her cigarette down on the ashtray. Glimmer paused, thinking.

“We’ll wait til Spinny gets back. She’ll need the Ambassador’s clearance before we can do much. That would have been her on the phone.” The phone clanged down in the corridor, and they both looked up as Bow shuffled back into the room with a worried look in his eyes. “Well?” Glimmer said, gesturing at him with her cigarette end. “Spit it out, man!”

“It’s…Peekablue.”

“What about him?”

Bow sighed, a weary look in his eyes. “He’s vanished.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor historical notes:
> 
> Entente Cordiale: The Alliance between the UK and France, signed in 1905.  
> Lord Halifax: Foreign Secretary of the UK in 1939 - known for being pro-appeasement.
> 
> CW//: This chapter contains contemporary attitudes and language on race

The backroom of _Plumeria_ stank of pipe tobacco and Marijuana. It was steeped into the wallpaper and furniture. You couldn’t tell while you were there, but Catra could merely step into the place and smell like it for the rest of the day. That didn’t stop her from spending all day in the back of it, lounging across as the sofa, looking through the gap in the curtain she always left at the collection of misfits and rejects that Perfuma preferred to call ‘regulars’. It was fun – a way to pass the time between racing across town to catch stories, watching the ex-pats and dockers stumble in and drink the less-than-legal Absinthe that was kept under the bar, cackling and guffawing as they told each other the same stories they told every time they got drunk. Sometimes she’d saunter out to sit with them, and trade half-hearted flirting for whatever gossip she gleaned to be important.

Not today, though. Today the curtain was drawn, the sounds from the rest of the café muffled and forgotten as Catra lit another cigarette and stared again at the letter on the desk. She’d read it already. Several times in fact. She’d gone through and read each sentence separately. She’d checked it for invisible ink, and for any secret code (only the easy ones), but frankly, the message of the letter was pretty fucking clear in the main text. People would kill for this – either to have it or to get it back. She’d spent a whole day looking at the damned thing, instead of doing anything useful, like bundling

“Why did you have this, Peekablue?” She asked herself, putting her cigarette down with the half a dozen burnt-out ends in the ashtray and picking the letter up again, not really reading it as much as feeling it in her hands, the paper feeling heavier in her hands than she should. She put it down and lay back on the sofa and tried to put it out of her mind. It didn’t work. When something like this is on your mind, you can’t just make it go away. It flows around in your head, bouncing around like a ship tossed on a storm, rising in peaks and troughs. She groaned, then took another drag from the cigarette.

“Catra?” a voice came from behind the curtain. She didn’t reply. Then the curtain slid open, the backroom suddenly filled with the noise and light from the main room of the café. She heard Scorpia put her head in, he heavy footsteps clunking on the floorboards. “You in here?” Catra put her hand up, waving the cigarette around so Scorpia could see here. “Oh!” she said, then the curtain was drawn closed and the tall woman clunked into one of the other sofas. “How are you today?”

“Fine.” She snapped. She didn’t need to sit up to know that Scorpia was giving her a sympathetic, concerned look. She sighed and pushed herself to sit up and looked at her friend in the eye. “I’m ok, I promise.” The American woman was still in her overalls from the mechanics’ shop, fresh oil stains marking it even though her face was clean, though blushed slightly. “How’s Perfuma?”

“Oh! Oh, she’s-“ Scorpia smiled slightly, her eyes glossing over slightly before she came back to earth. “I’m here to see how you are, Wildcat.” Catra cringed at the nickname.

“I’m alright, Scorpia.” Scorpia gave her a look. “I don’t want to talk about it, ok? I’ve got other things to be doing.”

“Which is why you’re hiding at the back of the café?”

“Shut up.” Scorpia shrugged, then leant back on the sofa, lifting her feet up and clunking her workboots on the table. “How’s your day been?”

“Alright. Not much is happening, you know how it is. Oh! There’s an Embassy Rolls-Royce in now. Lovely thing, but her Engine wasn’t built for the heat.” Catra raised an eyebrow, then put an open palm out in front of her. “Can I help you?”

“C’mon, Scorpia, hand it over.” The mechanic sighed, then put a hand into her pocket and fished a Dutch flag on a stick. Catra grinned, then took it and stuffed in her jacket pocket. “Merci,” she said with a sly grin.

“How many is that now?”

“Fifteen,” she said proudly.

“Fifteen?”

Catra put her cigarette butt out in the ashtray. “I went past the American Embassy last night,” she said casually. Scorpia made an understanding noise. “I’m still missing an English one though. The fuckers keep their car in a Garage.”

“Ah, that’s Limeys for you.” The mechanic said with a grin, then “Oh! That reminds me! Perfuma says we’ve got a new friend upstairs!”

“I don’t care.”

“Fine. Tell me about the letter then.”

“No.”

“C’mon, Catra! After everything we’ve been through?” the Frenchwoman thought back to what they had been through, remembering the bomb bursts and the bullets, and the screams in Spanish, and the scar on her cheek throbbed as she eyed the gash in Scorpia’s eyebrow as well. In her minds' eye, she could almost see the Nationalist pigs scrambling up the slope, their teeth bared and bayonets gleaming as she dragged Scorpia into cover, machine guns rattling around her.

“Everything we’ve been through is why I can’t get you involved in this.” She fixed her friend – her only real friend left alive in the world - with an earnest stare. “If you know what’s in this letter, you’ll be in as much danger as I am. I- I can’t risk that, you understand?” _You’re the last person alive who means anything to me. At all. I have nothing left to live for apart from making sure you get to live a life free from the misery that mine is._

Scorpia smiled at her, a genuine smile of understanding, different to the wild grins and belly laughs that the American woman usually had. “I understand.” Catra let out a small smile. “You know whatever you need, I’ll be there for you, right?”

“Careful, Scorpia, you’re going to make Perfuma jealous.” The mechanic blushed, and Catra chuckled to herself. “You were saying about the English upstairs?”

Scorpia grinned. “Our friends upstairs you mean?”

Catra rolled her eyes. “They’re not our friends, _Scorpia._ They’re a bunch of arrogant file-clerks who think just because they are English and Abroad, they can act like they own the place. And that sparkly one hates the French as well. For what reason? No reason. She just hates French people. I don’t know what happened. Did I say she couldn’t cook? I don’t need to know her to know it’s not true.”

“What about _Le Entente Cordiale_?” Catra cringed at the bad accent.

“Fuck the Entente Cordiale.” Scorpia was still looking at her like an expectant puppy. “Fine, tell me about our new _friend_.”

“Perfuma says’ she’s a lovely tall Englishwoman called Adora Grayson. Very pretty!”

“...and?”

“Well, you know…” Scorpia made a weird gesture with her hand, which Catra knew could have only one meeting.

“ _Non._ ”

“But-“

“One: You can’t try and set me up with every single woman you hear about. Two: You can’t try and set me up with every woman you hear about without checking if they are even interested in that way. Third: I don’t have the time or energy to deal with this, at all.”

“C’mon!” They were interrupted by the sound of hurried steps crashing down the rickety staircase above the room and echoing down the corridor. “That’s them now! What do you say, buddy? Shall we go and say howdy?” Catra glared at her. “That’s a no, then?” She heard the distant sound of a door slamming in the street, then a car (presumably theirs) being started.

“They’ll hang around in here at some point,” Catra muttered. “They always do.”

“Great! You can come to say hello!”

“Why? I never talk to them anyway. Smug assholes.”

Scorpia gave her a pleading look. “Maybe the new gal isn’t so smug. C’mon Wildcat! It could be fun!” Catra raised an eyebrow.

“I am not in the mood for fun.” The American groaned.

“If you’re going to mope about in Perfuma’s joint all day, you might as well talk to someone who isn’t me.” Catra gave her another look. “I’ll get you some more Jack Daniel’s off of Seahawk at the docks?”

Catra sighed. “Fine. _If_ they come back today, I will introduce myself. Properly.”

***

The ride to Peekablue’s house wasn’t long, mainly because Glimmer insisted on driving while Bow explained the new situation to her. “He was due to have a meeting with someone from the Embassy at midday. He didn’t turn up. When they called the Housekeeper told us that she hadn’t seen him today.” Bow flinched as Glimmer took a turn a _little_ too sharper, Adora holding tightly onto her hat as she went around the corner. “When she went to check, she was in a complete flap – something about a break-in. He was gone. The Embassy telephoned us immediately.” They were now roaring uphill into the more upmarket district, the close high tenements replaced with avenues of trees and large villas with great verandas.

“Have the police been called?”

“Yes,” Bow nodded, “But the Portuguese Police are….” He paused for a second as they clattered across a tramline far too quickly. “They’re no Scotland Yard, I’ll say that much. That won’t stop them from making a mess of the whole thing if we don’t get there first.”

“Is that why Glimmer’s driving like a madman?” Adora asked as Glimmer overtook a truck, narrowly missing a horse and cart coming the other way.

“No, she always drives like that,” Bow replied with a grin.

“Bow!” Glimmer protested as the turned into a side road, the Villa’s slightly larger than before.

“She has her reasons. We’ll never get through to see the office if they’re stomping about in there.” The car lurched to a halt at the villa on a corner overlooking a large square, where a few patrons sat outside a couple of cafes. Bow jumped out his side of the car, grabbing a satchel as Adora slid out the door. The Villa was a large, cream-coloured building with huge windows and a well kept front Garden with broad bushes at its' edge. it somehow looked both very Portuguese, but also extremely English. Something about the gabled windows.

Glimmer glanced around as they hurried up the steps and through the front garden. “I don’t think Spinny’s here yet.”

“What about the Police?” Adora asked as the rushed through the garden.

“Don’t think so,” Bow said as Glimmer rang the bell, tapping her foot impatiently. The door swung open to reveal a frazzled middle-aged woman. “Senhora Fonseca?”

“Sim?” she said, her eyes wide. “You are from the British Embassy?” Glimmer nodded. “You-you better come in.” They were ushered into the landing of the Villa, which was adorned with a rather ridiculous amount of white marble and Greek sculpture, but there was barely any time to take it in as the raced up the staircase.

“How long ago did you telephone the police?” Glimmer asked.

“Just after I called your Embassy,” she said. Glimmer grimaced.

“Had you not seen Mr Blue before that?”

“Senhor Blue, he is not an early riser,” the housekeeper babbled. “Sometimes I do not see him until the late afternoon, especially if he has been drinking. Unless he has business, which he did today, but…” she trailed off.

“Alright. Bow, Adora, check the room. Quickly.” Nodding, they went through the open door into the study.

“Bloody Hell,” Bow breathed. The room was a complete mess. Books had been pulled from bookshelves, drawers were thrown open and scattered across the room while the furniture smashed into pieces. Even the carpet had been ripped away to reveal floorboards that had been torn away from the floor. The door to another room looked like it had been forced open, and one of the windows looked shattered, the curtain flapping in the afternoon breeze.

“I’ll check the Bedroom,” Bow said, moving carefully across the room. Adora nodded and began to scour the room. She scanned the contents of the drawers quickly, but her eye was caught by the top drawer of the desk, which lay upside down on the desk. She checked the lock; it had not been forced. The contents were in a suspiciously neat pile on the desk.

“Huh,” she said to herself, then she looked across at the floor below the window, where a few shards of glass glittered in the midday sun. She turned around as Bow came through from the other room. “What’s that?” she said, gesturing to the pile in his hands.

“About £40,000 pounds in notes,” he said. “The safe was open – forced by the look of it. But everyone was still in there. This, some stock for the company, Fifteen thousand in Portuguese Reals and Twenty grand in Pesos.” Adora took the notes off of him. “The notes were on top of the safe, which is weird.”

Adora nodded, thinking. “Why force a safe open and don’t steal anything?” Bow shrugged.

“Maybe they didn’t find what they wanted?”

“They wouldn’t want these,” Adora muttered.

“Why?”

“They’re counterfeits. And not very good ones. Look-“ she pointed to the margins on the notes. “This is sloppy work.”

“Maybe they were after something else?”

“Whatever it is, they didn’t find it in the drawers either.” Adora sucked her teeth and pouted. “Something’s not right. We should talk to the housekeeper again.” Bow nodded, but as they turned to the landing, the door flung open to reveal a red-faced man with two police officers either side of him.

“Quem é Você?“ He yelled. Adora glanced at Bow.

“…Would you believe us if you said we’re the inspectors?” he said with a nervous smile. The man growled. “Sergeant! Arrest these two thieves!”

“Worth a try,” Bow muttered as they were grabbed by the two burly men and hauled into the corridor, where Glimmer stood with another policeman.

“Sorry, she muttered as they came down the stairs. “I tried.” Bow shrugged, but then the policemen stopped as two new people stood in the doorway of the house.

“Senhora Weaver,” the Portuguese Inspector said triumphantly. “I found these three in Mr Blue’s Room. They were going through the contents of his safe.” A tall woman in a long red dress stood in the doorway, staring at them.

“We were doing no such thing!” Glimmer yelled. “I wasn’t even in the room!”

“Silêncio!” Yelled one of the policemen. The woman in front of them stepped forward out of the shadow of the doorway, and Adora finally got a good look at her. Mrs Weaver was a thin woman with sallow skin that looked even in this climate like it had never seen the sun. Her face was cruel, ashen and without any humour or happiness. She was looking that them with what could best be described as satisfaction.

“Of course, you weren’t in his room my dear,” she said in a sickeningly sweet voice, her heels clicking across the marble floor as she went to stand in front of the small woman. “Someone had to keep watch while your _friends_ went scouring through my Nephew’s room for your loot.”

“We weren’t looking for loot!” Bow pleaded, gaining a disgusted glance from the woman.

“Oh please. And I’m sure this wasn’t all your idea then?” she clacked across the hall to the tall man, leering at him. “You’re all the same. Corrupting good people with your uncivilised manners and criminal tendencies. I ought to have you put on a boat and sent back to Africa to live in a hut.” Bow grimaced.

“He’s a damn sight more civilised than you’ll ever be,” Adora spat.

Weaver twisted to stare her, her glare shifting into a more terrifying smile. “My dear,” she said, stepping right into Adora’s face, her set-back eyes gleaming possessively. “What are you going here, being led astray by these degenerates? You look to be of good stock, English stock. _Aryan_ Stock.” She whispered the last two words, Adora shivering as she felt this woman run her eyes over her like a racehorse. “Come with me, and I’ll show a better set of society than these…people.” Adora felt both Bow and Glimmer staring at her as this…woman ran her hand along Adora’s arm. “Take those two deviants away!”

“You’ll do no such thing inspector!” A voice came from the open door, and Adora craned over Weaver’s shoulder to see a middle-aged woman coming up the stairs with a man in a Tan suit and stocky shoulders. The damned woman turned around and leered at the woman.

“Ah, Ms. Spinner. I wondered if you had your…hands in this.” She glanced at the man who was giving her a stern look. “What business do you have with these felons?”

The man walked up to the policemen with a severe look. “Inspector Ribeiro, I think you should wait outside with your men.”

“Senhor Scriber!” the policemen protested. “They were caught breaking and entering.”

“They had legitimate reasons to be here, Inspector.”

“But-“

Spinner gave him a stern look. “You’ve got men on the door. We’re not going anywhere. Let’s not have a diplomatic incident, shall we?” He sighed and waved his men with him, as Weaver made a protesting noise.

“So, Elizabeth. Did you send them to steal for you? Business that bad these days?” Weaver leered. “That’s what you get having ideas above your station.”

Ms Spinner ignored the comment. “Mr Blue was to conduct business with us and the British Embassy today. Mr Archer, Ms Barrett-Jones and Ms Grayson were to audit and prepare his papers before our meeting with the Embassy staff at 3:30.” She glanced at the man. “Mr Scriber here can confirm that.”

He took a step forward. “It’s all on the Embassy books, Ms Weaver.”

“They were breaking in!”

“As a point, Mrs Weaver,” Ms Spinner added, a tone of curiosity in her voice, “What were you doing here? Only the Embassy or the Police were aware of his disappearance.”

“I had come for lunch. It’s a regular engagement. It’s in his diary.”

“Mr Blue’s diary was booked all afternoon.”

“Well, I wasn’t aware of that.”

Glimmer rolled her eyes. “The housekeeper says he rarely rises before 2 unless it’s business anyway. Didn’t you know that?”

“So?” she scoffed. “They were still rummaging around in his room like common criminals in my Nephew’s room. That you cannot excuse.”

“Ms Weaver,” Mr Scriber countered. “Mr Blue’s office contained several documents pertaining to some national security issues.” Weaver crooked a wicked eyebrow at that.

“Oh? And what issues would they be?”

Mr Scriber gave her a tedious look. “Ones of national security. Need to know, Mrs Weaver.”

“And these…three? This – little women, the Negro boy and Ms. Grayson? _They_ are need to know?” Weaver sneered at them all. “God we really have gone to the dogs. You would not have this in Germany, you know. They know what to do with social deviants there.”

“Good,” Glimmer growled, earning a glare from Weaver. “Maybe they’d teach you not to be such a piece of shit.”

“You little-“Adora stepped in front of Glimmer before Weaver could follow through with the slap she was preparing.

“That’s _enough!_ ” she yelled as Weaver stepped back in shock. “We have made quite clear that we are not criminals, and as much as we’d _love_ a lecture on the merits of national socialism, unlike you _Mrs Weaver_ , we have actual work to do.”

The woman glared at Adora for a second, before settling into a smug smile. “I see you have inherited more from your Father than those eyes, Ms Grayson.” Adora blinked, but the woman was already gliding across the floor to Spinner and Scriber, who stared at her with bemusement. "You think I'm just going to let you get your dirty hands over all of poor Peter's affairs?"

"This is a government matter, Mrs Weaver," Scriber replied, tight-lipped.

"A government matter, why, Lord Halifax is a close friend and-"

"The Foreign Secretary is well aware of my rights and authority in this situation," Scriber countered. "Are you?" The woman stared him down for a second, before relenting. “If I found out any of you had anything to do with my Nephew’s disappearance, I’ll have you out on the street before you can say 'God Save the King'.” With that, she swept through the doorway, waving the policemen off as she strutted past her.

“Why do I get the feeling that won’t be the last we see of her?” Adora murmured as her heels clicked their way down the stone path.

“Cos she’s a sneaky fascist bitch.” Glimmer was still staring at her as she walked away, before glancing at Ms Spinner. “Sorry, Ma’am.” The older woman dismissed her with a wave, instead of turning to Adora.

“Sorry we should meet in such circumstances, Ms Grayson,” she said, offering a hand.

“It’s ok Ms Spinner,” Adora said, earning a chuckle from her.

“Please, call me Ella.” She turned back to the other man. “Mr Scriber, this is Adora Grayson, from the London Office.” He offered his hand. “Mr Scriber is our man in the Embassy.”

“You’re the latest of Angella’s odds and sods I see,” he said with a grin. “Good to have you onboard.” He cocked his head for a second. “Say, you’re not Rear Admiral Grayson’s daughter, are you?”

Adora shuffled slightly. “That’s me,” she said, stuff her hands in her pockets to resist the urge to make a weird hand gesture of some kind.

“He was a good man,” he said.

“Enough with the flattery, Marcus,” Spinner said. He nodded meekly.

“Mr Archer, give me a hand checking the office over before we hand it over to the police.” Bow nodded and followed him up the stairs.

Spinner watched them go, then turned back to Adora.

“What did you find before Ribeiro came barging in?”

“The room was a mess, but-“ Adora paused for a second.

“Go on.”

Adora steadied herself, then – “I don’t think that room was broken in to.”

“Why?”

“It was too neat. The books scattered across the floor were all from the same shelf, the drawers had been emptied out but the papers were still filed- no one had been through it searching. His locked drawer hadn’t even been forced, just put on top of the desk with the contents tossed around a bit.” She looked nervously at Ms Spinner - _Ella_ , who instead of giving her a scathing look was nodding along. Adora continued with more confidence. “The broken window had been broken from the inside as well – there wasn’t enough glass on the inside of the frame – it’s probably all in that hedge below it. Maybe something important was chucked out the window – I don’t know.”

“Someone wants us to think Peekablue’s been kidnapped.” Adora nodded.

“I think Peekablue wants people to think he’s been kidnapped. I think he wants us to know where he’s gone.”

“Why?” Glimmer asked.

“He said his life was in danger,” Adora replied.

“Why not come straight to us?”

“Maybe he didn’t have the time?” Adora shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Spinner mused for a second. “What makes you think he wants us to know?”

“There were some clues. Maybe-“ she paused, then turned to the staircase. “Bow!”

“Yes?” his face popped out from the doorway.

“Can you bring down some of the counterfeit notes? Oh! And the Locked Drawer!”

He looked confused, but shot her thumbs up, before re-emerging with the items. He trooped down the stairs to the trio, sharing a confused look with Glimmer. Adora picked up the fake pound notes from the top of the pile Bow was carrying.

“These notes were left on top of the safe. They’re counterfeit notes – not very good ones, actually, but good enough that a thief would probably be halfway to Alcantara before he knew he’d been hoodwinked. If we can figure out who made them, then maybe they’ll know.” Glimmer took a note from the pile and held it up to the light.

“What about the rest?” Spinner asked.

“It was left neatly on the desk. I think it’s important- other clues, to his location or why he was in danger – I don’t know.”

Glimmer groaned suddenly. “This is Seahawk’s work.”

“Who?” Adora asked.

“He’s a bit of an all-round petty criminal in the docks – smuggling, moonshine, a bit of counterfeit documentation on the side. He’s generally a nuisance, but he does tend to pick good information up. When he’s not drunk, or with his lady friend, that is.” She peered at the note closely. “These are new, though.”

“He doesn’t usually not counterfeit currency?”

“Oh he does, but it usually isn’t this _sloppy_.”

“How so.”

“King George doesn’t have a Handlebar moustache the last time I checked,” Glimmer deadpanned.

“That settles it,” Spinner said. “Peekablue wants to be found.”

“We better make sure we find him first,” Mr Scriber said as he came down the stairs.

“What do you mean?" Adora asked.

“Someone else has been in that room, hiding.” He said as he came up to them, hat in hand. “There’s footprints with dirt from the garden behind the main door, between it and the bookshelf, and another one slight on the windowsill. I wouldn’t say they’re more than two days old.”

“The Abwehr,” Glimmer muttered.

“Maybe not,” Spinner replied, "but we shouldn’t wait to find out. Take those papers and head back to the office with them, then hunt Seahawk down. Find out what he knows.”

“What about you?” Adora asked.

“Me and Mr Scriber need to straighten out the Police, then the Ambassador. Don’t stray too far from a telephone.” The three of them nodded, as Scriber let the Portuguese coppers back into the building, Inspector Riberio giving them all a snide look. “Get a move on before he decides to be clever.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” They all said and turned to leave.

“And Adora?”

“Yes?” she said, turning while the others left.

“Good job,” Spinner said with a smile. Adora grinned back, then trotted out of the Villa. Bow and Glimmer were already by the car, and she went to catch up, but then noticed that one of the bushes to her right looked crumpled, as if something large had fallen into it.

“Wait for a second!” she said to them, quickly cutting across the grass lawn to the side of the house. She glanced up urgently. None of the police officers were looking out the window. Crouching, she pushed some of the branches away to see the ground. There, imprinted in the dirt, was a clean footprint - A right hobnailed boot by the look of it, an old army one with three nails in a line down the centre missing. _Thank god for distinctive criminals_ , she thought to herself. She committed the boot to memory, then quickly stepped back onto the lawn and jogged over to the car, where Bow and Glimmer sat waiting for her, eyeing her curiously.

“Can I help you?” she asked as she slid into the backseat next to Glimmer.

“What were you doing?” the small woman asked.

“I-I went looking for footprints?”

“Did you find any?”

“I did,” Adora said proudly. “A very distinctive one as well!”

“Ah, the little grey cells, they are at work!”, Bow said with a bad french accent as he pulled the car out into the road.

“What?” Adora stuttered.

“It’s-never mind,” he said with a smile. Adora looked at the back of his head curiously, then shrugged to herself.

“What next?” she asked. “Down to the docks?” Glimmer shook her head.

“We’ll never find him there. It’s easier to find somewhere he has to go and pin him down there.”

“Ah. Got it.” They sat in silence for a second as Bow waited for a tram to pass. “…and where would that be.”

“Plumeria’s a good starting bet,” Glimmer said.

“Plumeria?”

“Perfuma’s café,” the short women groaned.

“Ohhhhh,” Adora said, like the idiot she was. “So we’re just gonna sit in there till he shows up?”

Glimmer shrugged. “Espionage is like war, Adora. Months of boredom punctuated by sheer terror.”

“And this is the boredom bit,” she grumbled.

“Doesn’t have to be,” Glimmer suggested. “We still have to figure out who was in Peekablue’s study.”

“True.” The streets of Lisbon thundered past Adora as her brain began to slot the few pieces she had into place. Peekablue was hiding – somewhere. Someone had gone into that office to look for something, and it had spooked him enough that he’d had to vanish. What the hell could it be? Where was it? Did he have it? Did someone else?

“Hey, Adora?” Glimmer asked, a devious smile on her face.

“uh-what?” she said, pulling herself out of her thoughts.

“You ever tried Absinthe?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Marcus Scriber (see what I did there? Eh?) is not based off of any characters from SPOP.
> 
> Once again, any comments are welcome! Hope you're enjoying it so far!

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been ear-worming into my brain for a few days. If you like it, let me know in the comments and I'll keep updating (somewhat) regularly.


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